


Shore Leave

by HoldYourHortas



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Handcuffed Together, I can't believe i wrote this but WATCH ME FILL THE VOID, M/M, Q - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 04:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13710072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldYourHortas/pseuds/HoldYourHortas
Summary: While preparing for shore leave on Vulcan, Jim and Spock find themselves accidentally handcuffed together, and have to deal with the consequences.





	Shore Leave

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for letsgomindthestore on tumblr :) definitely go check out their blog!

After four months since their last stop at a starbase, the crew was getting restless for shore leave, on any planet. With the exception of Scotty and Keenser, and some key personnel, nearly every crewmember had jumped at shore leave, even on Vulcan.

Jim locked his quarters, a small bag in one hand and the tri-ox compound Bones had shoved at him earlier in the other. He tucked it into a pocket and made his way for the transporters. Bones was one of the few staying aboard, citing that “somebody had better keep an eye out for the idiots who end up offending a Vulcan or dying of heat stroke,” as he prepared more tri-ox compound kits. Jim chuckled to himself and shook his head. He’d have to bring something back for Bones, most likely a bottle of real alcohol. Or an “I went to Vulcan and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” shirt, as tourists do. He nodded to crewmembers as he passed them, weary smiles bright in the face of shore leave.

Sulu waved him down as he passed, alongside Chekov, whose own bags were piled by the door to Sulu’s quarters.

“Mr. Sulu was just showing me the artifact he found on Starbase Four, Captain,” Chekov said, beaming. “It was invented in Russia.”

Sulu pulled out a pair of old-style handcuffs from the 21st century, the metal scuffed around the mechanism. “Thought I’d try learning to be an escape artist, since you never know what we’ll get into out here,” Sulu explained, fiddling with the cuffs. “The merchant said they’d belonged to a famous one from Earth, Harry Houdini.”

Jim laughed. “Good luck with that, Sulu. I’ll tell Scotty to stand by with some bolt cutters, just in case.”

“Would that not diminish their historical value?” Spock said, appearing at Jim’s side. He was wearing simple charcoal grey Vulcan robes, a small black bag in his hand. From what Jim understood, he was taking this opportunity to visit his father, at the older man’s request. Spock had seemed uneasy about it, and rightfully so; his last visit had resulted in a surprise meeting with Ambassador Spock. Though he had declined to tell Jim the details, he got the impression it hadn’t wholly been pleasant.

“You’ve got a point, there, Spock,” Jim said, clapping him on the arm. He’d planned to do some sight-seeing on New Vulcan, and some rock-climbing, if he could. Spock might appreciate the chance to get away from his father after a few days. “Actually, hey, I was thinking—”

It happened in a flash. The ship listed to one side, Chekov falling out of the doorway, bags landing on top of him. Sulu had been reaching for the open cuffs, then tripped. Cool metal snapped into place around Jim’s wrist, another click coming seconds later. The Enterprise stabilized after a minute, crewmen clinging to their posts. A few bags slid down the corridor, one particularly bright purple suitcase nearly beaning Chekov in the face.

“What the hell was that, Scotty?” Jim said into his comm.

“One o’ the support pylons for docking at New Vulcan’s Visitor Base snapped, sir,” Scotty reported. “I’m of a mind to have a look-see later and lend some hands, when I can.”

“Alright, then. Enjoy your shore leave. And don’t let Keenser into the coffee.” Jim put his comm away and bent to retrieve his bag with his other hand, only to meet firm resistance. Sulu’s handcuffs were tight around his left wrist, the other end clipped around Spock’s right. He appeared greener than usual when he noticed the cuffs, pointedly avoiding looking at Jim.

Chekov bounced in place. “Should I get the bolt cutters from Mr. Scott, Captain?”

 A blush burned Jim’s neck and ears. Of course he’d be the one person in the galaxy to manage to get handcuffed to a Vulcan.

“That would compromise their historical integrity,” Spock pointed out, gaze riveted to the handcuffs. It was illogical to remain cuffed, yet appreciation for the past was something he had tried to cultivate. If he could find a way to release the handcuffs without force, he would attempt that. Sulu tried to smother a grin behind one hand.

Jim shrugged. “I hadn’t had much planned for shore leave anyway.”

Spock inclined his head, holding his hand still as he could to keep from touching Jim’s, though he could feel the warmth pouring off of him. “In that case, I shall inform my father of the change in plans prior to beaming down.”

Jim stood awkwardly as Spock typed a message one-handedly to his father, Sulu and Chekov lounging in the doorway. Chekov’s eyes kept glancing between their linked wrists, a series of half-suppressed giggles following after.

“Think of it this way, Commander,” Sulu said. “Now you can try your hand at being Houdini.”

***

Sarek had said nothing when they’d beamed down together, merely raising a single eyebrow and leading them to an aircar, though that was probably a result of Spock’s instant glare, daring his father to comment on their predicament. Jim shifted his wrist as far from Spock’s as he could manage in the back seat, only three inches separating their hands. He avoided Sarek’s inquisitive gaze and opted to stare out the window. It wasn’t the boring view he’d expected, of never-ending red sand in every direction. New Shi’Kahr had grown rapidly since the Enterprise’s last supply run, from a collection of perfectly pitched Starfleet emergency tents to a bustling city center, complete with some of the larger Federation embassies. Actual roads led in and out of the city’s heart, aircars perfectly in time with each other.  Though more diverse than Vulcan-that-was, according to Ambassador Spock in his last message, Jim and Spock still received more than a few odd stares at their linked wrists, some of disgust and others of obscene curiosity. As the scenery transformed into open desert, he pulled out his comm.

Jim: hey, Bones. We made it down in one piece. Though there was a bit of a…mishap prior to it.

Bones: Do I need to beam down any medical supplies?

Jim snorted softly. Typical Bones.

Jim: No, it’s not that serious. Just a bit of emotional discomfort.

Bones: Dammit, Jim. You didn’t manage to piss off a Vulcan already, did you?

Jim: Nah, just got handcuffed to one.

Bones didn’t reply for a while and Jim imagined him silently fuming, cheeks gradually reddening until he resembled a sun-ripe tomato. He put his comm away before Bones could reply, looking back out the window as the aircar slowed to stop. Sarek’s house was practically a mansion by New Vulcan standards, crafted out of a hunk of the New Vulcan equivalent of limestone. A wooden sign hung near the doorway, handpainted Vulcan script elegantly naming it as the House of the Clan of Surak. Spock appraised it, seemingly content, and he and Jim slid out of the aircar, hands knocking against each other in the process.

“Sorry,” Jim whispered, wincing as Sarek’s eyebrow made an attempt to touch the sky.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock replied.

Sarek led them into his house. It was decorated austerely, as many possessions had been destroyed on Vulcan-that-was, but a woodcut of Amanda hung on the wall beside a single holograph of Spock with the bridge crew just before their five-year mission, and another of a serious-looking human woman standing next to Captain Georgiou, of the Shenzhou. Jim barely got a close look before Spock led them to the single spare bedroom, a luxury courtesy of Sarek’s ambassador status. The room, too, was sparse; the single bed, more of a cot, took up half the room. A mat and untouched incense supplies filled a small alcove sectioned off for meditation, Jim guessed. He tucked his bag at the foot of the bed and sat down, arm dangling from the cuffs as Spock surveyed the room.

“I promise not to hog the blankets,” Jim joked.

“I doubt you shall need any, as New Vulcan is quite—”

“Relax, Spock, I was joking,” he said. “I’m no stranger to desert planets.” He’d meant to reference their latest few missions but the words fell flat between them, like the empty space of Vulcan-that-was. Jim swallowed, then stood and started unpacking. Beside him, Spock did the same, both of them moving in tandem as they arranged their clothes and toiletries.

“Prior to our incident aboard the Enterprise, my father had planned to attend an ambassadorial dinner,” Spock began. “Upon hearing the Enterprise was stationed for shore leave, the host extended the invitation to include us as well. It is my father’s wish that we should attend, in spite of our…limitation.”

Jim blinked. His dress uniform was still tucked at the back of his closet in his quarters, though it wasn’t like he’d be able to get into it anyway. At least Spock looked presentable in his robes, simple as they were.

“However, should you wish to stay here, I am amenable to that,” Spock concluded.

Jim could already feel the awkwardness settling in; once they’d unpacked, there wasn’t much else to do. It wasn’t like Sarek had a chess board lying around for them to play, and tri-D chess was hardly the same on a PADD.

And besides, Vulcan parties couldn’t be too hard to handle, could they?

Jim shrugged. “Why not spend the night out? We’re on shore leave, after all.”

***

Three hours later, Jim regretted his decision. The gathering was held in the community center at the heart of New Shi’Kahr, and though night had fallen, the party stretched on. Vulcans grouped together logically, like polka dots of conversation across the room. Spock had told him the intricate social protocol for introductions and joining a conversation, but Jim had forgotten it seconds later, not too clear on where he was supposed to stand and when. Sarek had given them the ta’al as soon as they stepped in before seamlessly working his way around the room, stopping only to introduce Spock and Jim to the hostess, an older Vulcan woman named T’Vann. Her long black hair was pinned in an elaborate arrangement of braids and curls, cascading down her shoulders. She wore an elegant black dress that ruffled at the neck and covered every inch of skin save for her hands, like an oversized stag beetle. Spock shot a sideways glance at him as he struggled to maintain a neutral expression. _Right now, you’re a diplomat,_ he reminded himself.

“Commander Spock,” T’Vann greeted, as was custom. It would fall on Spock to introduce Jim, and he did so, stepping slightly to the left and behind him.

“T’Vann, this is my captain, James T. Kirk, of the Enterprise,” Spock said as Jim offered the ta’al with his free hand.

“Live long and prosper.”

T’Vann nodded, regarding their linked wrists over the lip of her k’vass glass, one delicate eyebrow raised. “Is it not more logical to break the chains binding you?” _Rather than indulge human folly_ , her body language suggested in the curve of her lips and glimmering laughter behind her eyes.

Spock stepped slightly in front of Jim. “It was most logical to preserve historical value.”

“How quaint,” T’Vann commented, sipping her k’vass. Jim stepped up to Spock’s side, knuckles brushing his gently, the miniscule hairs tickling the back of his hand. He glanced over at Spock when he felt the return graze, so light he could have mistaken it for a passing breeze as someone walked by. T’Vann excused herself and joined another group; nobody else approached them. Jim led Spock towards the refreshments table, stomach protesting his decision to skip breakfast that morning. Few Vulcans lingered there, instead conversing with their colleagues in measured Vulcan about the VSA’s latest advancements to aid in city-planning across New Vulcan. The food table was, as always, logical, and completely devoid of anything Jim recognized as party food. Finger food, he guessed, wasn’t the most popular thing on a planet when there were cleaner alternatives. Spock, noticing Jim’s hesitation, handed him a cup of pale green soup, smelling faintly of plomeek and what Jim hoped was ginger.

“Soup? In a cup?” Jim said incredulously before taking a sip. The flavors were subtle, the ginger-like flavor tingling pleasantly with the plomeek’s smoothness. “How is this logical?”

Spock’s lips quirked at the edges. “Vulcans do not eat with their hands, thus easily prepared foods like soup are common party fare.” He procured a glass of k’vass for himself, examining the clear pink liquid before sipping it delicately. Jim got a glass of his own once he finished the soup; it tickled his tongue ever so slightly, cold with a hint of sweetness.

They watched the party for a few minutes, Jim picking out the pattern as each Vulcan made their way across the room, staying with a group for no longer than five minutes, unless the discussion proved intriguing. He jerked the handcuffs lightly when a Vulcan woman made her way towards them, picking up her own glass of k’vass. Her light blue dress shimmered in the soft light, her hair piled on top of her head even more elaborately than T’Vann. Silver dusted her cheekbones and eyelids. She was, in a word, radiant. Jim stepped back to allow Spock to introduce them, gulping down his own k’vass.

“Spock, son of Sarek,” the woman greeted, raising the ta’al, nodding at Jim. “Captain Kirk.” Her tone was mildly surprised, though she hid it well, amusement shining through when she noticed the handcuffs.

“T’Pring, daughter of T’Mana,” Spock replied, setting his glass down for the ta’al. He held himself stiffly, shoulders snapping to attention.

“Good to see you, T’Pring,” Jim said. They’d met briefly Fin passing during one of their previous supply runs to New Vulcan, delivering equipment to the Vulcan Science Academy. T’Pring was working to document and restore plant life from Vulcan-that-was with samples taken from off-planet science labs throughout the Alpha Quadrant. She and Uhura had hit it off, Jim remembered, once Spock had dropped his frozen silence and the two had resolved whatever problems they’d had. Spock hadn’t told him the details, but when he’d mentioned the meeting to Ambassador Spock, he’d gotten the idea that something very similar had happened in the alternate universe. Maybe his own Spock would tell him someday. His mind started to wander as Spock and T’Pring began discussing the Enterprise’s latest botany incident regarding the plants the Beta Nu inhabitants had gifted them. Spock left out the more…interesting details and Jim filled them in mentally. The pollen had had an adverse effect on humans, though Spock claimed he had been largely unaffected. In truth, the pollen acted like Valentine’s Day had come early, flowers and all. It was a good thing Vulcans didn’t eat chocolate, Jim thought, or else the incident could’ve been a lot more serious. Though he’d avoided getting caught up in the romantic side effects of the pollen, there had definitely been something in the air on the bridge. Spock had almost seemed to glow, and there were times Jim had forced himself to concentrate on the viewscreen or his PADD, instead of picking up his chair and installing it right next to the science station.

“Extraordinary,” T’Pring commented, a glint in her eye. “It would be logical to share your botanical findings with the rest of the scientific world.”

“Well, we’ll just have to invite you aboard,” Jim broke in. “Lieutenant Uhura wouldn’t mind showing you around the ship, I’m sure.” A faint green blush broke on T’Pring’s cheeks, then. Jim grinned to himself; he hadn’t missed the way they’d looked at each other during the Enterprise’s first few visits to New Vulcan, nor the subsequent increase of calls between the ship and the planet itself. Jim stifled a yawn, sipping more soup.

“I would be amenable to that, Captain Kirk. Perhaps we could all meet up later during your shore leave, when you and Commander Spock are less caught up in each other,” she said, looking pointedly at the handcuffs. An outright smirk graced her lips when she offered them the ta’al.  “Live long and prosper.”

They only stayed for another hour, Spock pointing out the various diplomats and officials Sarek had introduced them to earlier, explaining how they were helping settle on New Vulcan. Ambassador Spock, Jim noted, was conspicuously absent, though he guessed that was to prevent any confusion between the two Spocks, despite going by Selek in public. Disappointment panged in his chest; before they’d been handcuffed together, Jim had meant to find some time to visit him. He doubted his Spock would enjoy the meeting. As far as he knew, they hadn’t interacted with each other since before their five-year mission.

“Come, Jim,” Spock said, interrupting Jim’s train of thought with a tug of the handcuffs. “It would appear our presence is no longer necessary, and I suspect my father will stay for a few more hours.” Sarek was tucked into a larger group of diplomats, a debate picking up heat, by Vulcan standards. They left the aircar with Sarek, choosing to walk. It was only a few miles, and the air would do them good.

Moonlight pooled around corners of New Shi’Kahr, bathing Spock’s hair in silver. Their hands swung gently between them, the chain clicking with every step. A cool, gentle breeze passed every now and then as the temperatures fell to a tolerable human temperature.

“Is it that different from Vulcan?”

Spock hesitated minutely when Jim spoke. “It is different,” Spock admitted, slowing to purposeful stroll. “There was no moon. It is disconcerting, seeing sand in the moonlight.”

He kept his gaze on the path, avoiding Jim as if it would disguise the emotion in his voice. “The nights were warmer, though it was custom to light a fire for gatherings that ran late.”

They let the conversation slow to a lull, continuing in companionable silence until they reached the house. Neither of them attempted putting on sleepwear, the handcuffs a firm reminder of just how linked they were. Spock skipped meditation, settling in bed with Jim, still in his robes from that morning. Jim kicked off his boots, like always, and chose the side of the bed closest to the wall. By unspoken agreement, they slept on their sides facing each other, linked wrists in between them. Jim fell asleep quickly under the thin sheet, Spock’s warmth filling the bed.

***

Spock arose well before dawn, staring into the dark room as he assessed the situation. His right elbow twinged, stiff from his sleeping position. Beside him, Jim was still asleep, breathing steadily. The thin bed sheet was tangled around his legs and his hair gave new meaning to bedhead. Spock allowed himself to look for exactly sixty seconds, examining the way the pre-dawn sunlight crept through the windows and turned Jim’s hair into a golden halo. Jim would not wake up for another 3.5 hours; he would attempt meditation from his spot on the bed, though he doubted its efficacy. He rolled onto his back and lowered his ragged shields, the trance coming easily.

Two hours later, Spock was aware of someone watching him. Jim had curled further onto his side, trying not to jostle the handcuffs too much and failing. Spock kept his eyes shut and listened to Jim’s barely audible curses before turning back onto his side to face him.

“Morning, Spock,” Jim murmured, voice sleep-heavy and warm.

“Good morning, Jim,” Spock replied, equally soft. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Jim sat up, stretching one arm and working out the kinks, squinting slightly against the sunlight. He looked back down at Spock on the bed and something bloomed in his chest, heavy and warm and familiar. Jim looked down at him in the pre-morning haze.

“Um,” Jim said. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta…” He jerked a thumb towards the attached bathroom and Spock sat up. _Right, of course._

***

Jim hadn’t thought it could get any worse than this morning, but things could always get more awkward when it was him and Spock. Even in the early days of working on the bridge together, it hadn’t been like this.

Though, in retrospect, Jim doubted the Admiralty had ever made a command team cook a meal while handcuffed together. Some Vulcan customs were more serious than others, and Spock had informed him nearly an hour earlier that it was customary for houseguests to prepare the morning meal, in order to contribute to the household’s function. Jim didn’t point out that Spock was technically family, not a houseguest, but it didn’t change the fact that Jim had no idea what most Vulcans ate for breakfast, aside form Spock’s preference for a certain soup.

“This would be more efficient if you let me chop the plomeek,” Spock huffed, reaching for the knife. Shreds of plomeek lay mangled on the cutting board and Jim dropped the knife with a sigh.

“It’s a little hard to do this with one hand, Spock,” he said. “Look, this is our third attempt and who knows when your father’s going to wake up. We should make something else.”

Spock considered it for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in consternation. “Very well,” he relented. “What do you suggest?”

“I’ve been known to make a mean blueberry pancake, courtesy of Bones,” Jim replied, a twinkle in his eye. The pancake batter was much easier to stir, and Bones had made sure Jim could flip pancakes with either hand, citing future weird accidents. They filled a plate with pancakes exactly five inches in diameter, blueberries turned to mushy indigo smears.

Sarek entered the kitchen to find the two of them sitting at his single wooden table, rather closer than they would have chosen, he guessed. A place was already set for him, and no one spoke as they loaded their plates. Jim had attempted to replicate maple syrup for himself, but settled for lemon juice and powdered sugar instead after receiving an abysmal sludge no one would ever call syrup. And though he instantly stored the memory away to reflect on later, for one moment Sarek was not cozy in the New Vulcan heat but shivering slightly at wind and rain off a distant bay outside a hole-in-the-wall breakfast café, stealing a pancake from Amanda’s plate as she mocked a seagull. Blueberry had been her favorite. But it would not do to dwell on the past at this juncture. Not when there was a future to shape.

“There is much to do at the Academy. I shall not return for approximately 12.5 hours,” Sarek said as he stood, taking care of his dishes. He offered the ta’al before gathering his things. The aircar hummed slightly as it started, leaving Jim and Spock alone in the kitchen.

For a small house, it felt cavernous, not even a ticking clock to fill it. They cleaned quietly before settling in Sarek’s modest sitting room, an austere sofa and coffee table piled neatly with PADDs the only furniture. Jim glanced over at the pictures on the wall. It was a mild surprise, to say the least, to see Spock’s photo on the wall, considering his relationship with his father, but of course things had changed. People tended to cling to their remaining family after horrific events, no matter the state of the relationship beforehand. He so desperately wanted to ask about the human woman standing next to Captain Georgiou, but Spock had been reticent all morning after he’d woken up. But Jim Kirk wasn’t a man of silence and he didn’t plan on making it a habit now.

“Hey, Spock, who’s the woman standing next to Georgiou?” He jerked a thumb towards the holograph.

Spock stood up, dragging Jim over to the picture to get a closer look. “That is my adopted sister, Commander Michael Burnham.”

“Huh,” Jim said. “I never saw her in the Academy records.”

Spock paused, scanning the photo. “That is because she attended the Vulcan Science Academy before joining Starfleet.”

Jim whistled lowly before facing Spock. “Why didn’t I know you had a sister? You know about Sam,” he said, leveling a meaningful stare.

Spock shifted. “We do not speak as much as we used to. The last time I saw her was when I served under Captain Pike in between semesters teaching at the Academy.” Jim stepped closer to Spock, peering around his shoulder to get a better look at Michael and Captain Georgiou. Seeing he had piqued Jim’s interest, Spock elaborated on the mission and being thrown into yet another perilous situation with his sister after years of not speaking. When he mentioned the planet was almost entirely made of water, Jim didn’t imagine Spock’s shudder, and smiled to himself. He’d seen firsthand how much Vulcans disliked water, unless they were drinking it.

That story segued into more, from both of their childhoods, and after a replicated lunch, they settled onto the couch with their own stacks of PADDs. Paperwork waited for no officer, especially a command team that found themselves in situations that frequently tested protocol. Text swam before Jim’s eyes, regulations repeating themselves until it turned into a mess of jargon. Four hours of paperwork had put a good dent in the pile, enough that Jim wouldn’t feel guilty leaving it for after shore leave. He glanced over at Spock, who was examining blueprints for a new ventilation system on his PADD. Jim scooted over, looking over his shoulder.

The blueprints proposed an alternate ventilation system leading to the bridge, in case the main ones were compromised. They’d be good to have as backup, Jim decided. It happened often enough that some being or another tried to suffocate the bridge that it would be worth the cost and installation time.

“Let’s get them,” he said aloud, to Spock’s raised eyebrow, suddenly closer than ever. He leaned back, trying for casual but failing when he could still feel the subtle warmth Spock radiated tingling in his fingertips. “I’d rather not suffocate on the bridge again.” Spock lowered the eyebrow, approving the blueprints with his signature and passing the padd to Jim to sign. One scrawl, and it was done. Jim’s stomach rumbled and Spock checked the chronometer.

“It would be prudent to acquire nourishment,” he said.

“Not pancakes again. And we know cooking anything more complicated than soup’s out.” Jim grabbed his padd, searching for places in New Shi’Kahr that might have anything he wouldn’t have a reaction to. He grinned, shutting the padd off before Spock could see the place he’d found.

“Care to brave the Vulcan nightlife?”

Apprehension twinged in Spock’s spine under the force of Jim’s smile, but he followed him out the door. It wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter, regardless.

***

Quark’s was a common tourist trap on planets across the galaxy, from Risa’s golden pleasures to deep in the Beta Quadrant. Spock did have to admit a hint of surprise at how busy it was. The stone building boasted multiple pseudo-neon signs reminiscent of twenty-first century Las Vegas advertising intoxicants and special commodities. Quite the assortment had gathered, making up the first wave of the evening crowd. Betazoids, Andorians, and other Federation races aiding in relief efforts gathered at large tables, laughter ringing out above the low music. Spock noted a few Starfleet officers as Jim wove through the crowd towards a table near the back. A classic 2-D chess set occupied half of it, menus upright at their places. From his seat, Spock could survey the bar and restaurant in relative anonymity, as well as avoid the barrage of noise from other occupants. They decided on Italian, to Jim’s mild surprise. It seemed there were many things they still had to learn about the other, and Spock vowed to rectify them, as well as introduce Jim to the locally owned Italian restaurant a few blocks from campus that had been his regular haunt every Tuesday night after his final lecture.

After placing their order, they arranged the chess set between them, linked wrists resting on the table. From the observer’s point of view, it was not far off from a date. Spock had little hope that Jim hadn’t come to that conclusion; if he were of a more suspicious nature, he would theorize that Jim had planned it that way. But then, speculation was illogical until it was necessary. He glanced up from contemplating Jim’s king, meeting Jim’s gaze.

“How are we going to get out of this, Spock?” he said, jangling the handcuffs. “As much as you’re my right hand first officer, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to spend the rest of your life at my side.”

_Would that be such a bad thing?_ A little voice needled Spock. _To be linked, in more ways than one?_

“It would make handling a tricorder rather difficult, Captain,” he replied instead, studying the chain linking them. There were little scuff marks on the metal from their breakfast attempts earlier and the wear and tear of being together. But not deep enough to separate them.

Their vegetable lasagna arrived and they ate, progressing through a few games of chess, the only sounds the pieces clacking across the board and forks against plates. The rest of Quark’s had melted away until they could’ve been anywhere, maybe even back in Jim’s quarters on the Enterprise with _their_ chess set. But the noises of the night gradually filtered back in, until it was Jim, and Spock, and the rest of the bar.

“What do you say we play another game, tonight?” Jim suggested, leaning back in the booth. “Quark’s definitely has plenty.”

A table in the other corner boasted a game map painted to look like the Alpha Quadrant, different planets marked in hexagons across the board. Starship-shaped pieces were planted at intersections, with smaller pieces fashioned to look like warp trails connected them. Two Vulcans, a human, and a Betazoid all sat at the table in fierce competition, though mostly silent as they rolled the dice before beginning to bargain. Single tables throughout the restaurant held kal-toh sets, the magnetic rods in various states of play. One set was completely finished, and other Vulcans avoided going to the table, as if to preserve its logical wholeness for a moment longer. One set was completely disassembled, though he doubted Jim would want to play; kal-toh could be frustrating, even for the most patient of Vulcans. Humans gathered around two other game tables, a battered board of “Clue” just barely hanging on as they slid pieces around the board. The other table was in an uproar over some Earth game called “Monopoly.” Jim looked at the “Clue” board with a gleam in his eye, but shifted his attention as a stranger walked up to the table.

He was average height, with average looks. Brown hair, brown eyes, forgettable nose, and memorable mouth. A nondescript black coat hung from his shoulders and he clapped his hands together.

“Well, gentlemen, I heard you’re looking for a game,” he said, scooting into the booth on Jim’s side and shoving the chessboard to the end of the table. The corners of his lips pulled up slightly when he noticed the handcuffs, eyes flicking quickly away. He pulled out a deck of purple cards, for all appearances containing the standard 52 cards.  “I’ve got a little beauty, a most illogical little thing, called fizzbin.”

Spock raised an eyebrow as he noted Jim’s reaction. The captain was intrigued, leaning in close and peering at the deck. The cards were slightly worn around the edges, but shuffled with a crisp snap. Spock knew, without a doubt, that Jim was going to go for it; it was the same curious look he got whenever he was met with a problem he’d never encountered before, whether diplomatic or scientific. A small thrill shot through Spock’s gut; “fizzbin” should prove interesting, and he doubted the stranger’s claim to complete illogic.

“Only the best teams stand a chance,” the stranger said, shuffling the deck. “They must know each other inside and out, minds moving together like a dance.” He met both their gazes and spread his hands, the desk disappearing. “You think you’re up for it?”

Spock brushed Jim’s fingers, a signal to pause. “Perhaps you could enlighten us as to your identity first.”

The stranger smirked. “You’re very Vulcan, aren’t you? Such a pity.” He sighed, raking Spock with his eyes. Spock fought a wave of repulsion, settling on stony neutrality. “You look like an excellent snack, in those robes.”

Jim cleared his throat, fingers knocking against Spock’s on the table. “How about a wager? We win, you tell us your name. You win, and we’ll pay for dinner.”

The stranger’s lecherous smirk turned into a delighted smile. The deck materialized in his hands with a  pop, as if he’d pulled it straight from the air. “Why, Captain, you haven’t even heard the rules of the game. Not very logical, I’m afraid.” He shuffled the deck slowly, dealing seven cards to Spock and six to Jim before laying three cards down in the center.

“I’ll take your wager, and do you one better,” he said, setting the deck aside. “You win, and I’ll not only tell you who I am, but also give you this.” He pulled a tiny scuffed silver key from a pocket and laid it on the table next to the handcuffs. Jim glanced over at Spock, whose attention was riveted to the key. It appeared like it would fit.

“What do you require should we lose?” Spock asked.

The stranger smiled, tapping the deck. “Oh, nothing so dire as freedom from mortal constraints. This should be entertainment enough. But I happen to know of a nearby karaoke joint and an excellent 80s pop song. You lose, you’ve got to sing for your dinners.”

“And let me take you out sometime,” he added with a wink. Jim wasn’t entirely sure if that was meant for him or Spock, at this point. Spock looked positively determined, and Jim felt the beginnings of an adrenaline rush. A game he’s never heard of, with stakes so high they risked public embarrassment? It almost felt like his pre-Academy days.

“You’re on,” Jim said, smirk blooming on his lips.

The stranger’s grin deepened with nearly sinister glee. He clapped his hands together and peeled up the first card, gently turning it over. Jim and Spock leaned in.

It was the jack of hearts.

“Excellent, excellent start,” the stranger said. “Now, it happens to be a Tuesday, so that means, gentlemen, that the second card gets turned over. Go ahead, Mr. Spock.”

Spock raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest, delicately flipping the card over. It was the four of hearts. The stranger whistled low, in admiration.

“Good hand, it seems. Say, another stroke of luck and the game’ll be over in three cards,” he said, rubbing his chin. He shrugged. “Why not take that chance, Captain Kirk? Flip the third card over.”

The king of spades glowered dourly back up at them. The stranger sucked in a breath. “I’m afraid, Captain Kirk, that you’ll have to give me three of your cards without looking at them, or sneak a peak and give back five. The choice is yours.”

Jim handed him three, and the game took off. Through a maze of seemingly arbitrary rules, Spock and Jim traded cards, threw cards across the room, and completely reshuffled. The game seemed just outside of time, the players’ attention caught up in the cards and the illogical rules that never seemed to apply more than once. Finally, only three cards lay in the center of the table, Jim and Spock’s hands empty.

“This is it, gentlemen,” the stranger intoned. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for.” He turned the first card over with a flourish.

The jack of hearts.

He gestured for Spock to turn over the second one. He laid it face up gingerly; Jim detected a slight tremor in his fingers. He brushed his knuckles against Spock’s reassuringly.

The four of hearts.

Jim’s heart pounded in his ears as he reached for the last card, the stranger smiling indulgently at him. Spock’s face was impassive, but Jim could read the anticipation lingering there. He wasn’t sure either of them was still breathing.

The queen of hearts.

The stranger leaned closer to the cards. “Interesting, interesting,” he murmured. “That’s a supernova fizzbin for sure. The odds are _astronomical._ ”

Jim let out a breath, grinning widely at Spock, relief and happiness plainly reflected in his eyes. They’d done it! He tapped his fingers against Spock’s, briefly lacing them together around the handcuffs before letting go and turning back to the stranger—

\--who had vanished into thin air, the booth empty except for Jim and Spock. Even the cards had collected themselves and vanished. Spock raised both eyebrows.

“Fascinating.”

They both reached for the key, fingers fumbling, and Jim blushed, letting Spock unlock them. He was glad they wouldn’t have to break the handcuffs open to get them back to Sulu, but as soon as the cuffs snapped open, he missed the weight of Spock’s hand swinging inches from his, a shadow with weight and depth and warmth. They stayed for a moment in the handcuffs, open but still close, until Spock withdrew his hand, tucking the key and cuffs into a pocket in his robes after carefully refastening them.

Though the restaurant still teemed with life, they left, by unspoken agreement, strolling back towards Sarek’s house; the moonlight was fainter that night, still speckling Spock’s hair with silver. Jim admired the slope of his nose, the gentle bow of his lips, in the shadows that lingered under his cheeks, throwing his face into sharp relief. He flexed his hands at his side then shoved them in his pockets. A touch meant so much more now that he couldn’t blame it on being accidental. When they arrived at the house, they made their way to the bedroom, pulling on their sleepwear. Jim crawled into bed immediately, limbs too heavy with the absence of connection. He could still feel the metal against his skin if he concentrated.

“I require meditation and shall do my best not to disturb you,” Spock said, tone stiff as the way he held himself, Starfleet sleep shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.

“Right,” Jim said. It made sense, after all. That much proximity to his emotions would drive anyone up the wall after a while; he’d been told he thought quite loudly, after all, one telepathic race describing his emotions as practically jumping out of his skin. Incense wafted from the meditation alcove, spicy and warm. Jim breathed deeply, arms behind his head as he traced constellations on the ceiling with his eyes. Two hundred heart beats later, his eyes stung with the effort of keeping them open. Jim rolled onto his side of the bed, curling up to the wall and wrapping himself with the sheet.

“Good night, Spock,” he whispered to the darkness.

There was a long pause and he flushed. Of course Spock couldn’t hear him; he was probably deep in meditation at this point, tidying his ever-efficient mind.

“Good night, Jim.”

Jim smiled into the pillow and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

The next morning, Jim woke up to an empty bed, warmth still lingering on Spock’s side. He rolled over into it, breathing deep and letting out a sigh. He should get up. He should help make breakfast.

_He should stop pining and do something_ , Bones’ voice growled in his mind. He groaned, and stumbled out of bed, pulling on a fresh shirt and running his fingers through his hair on his way to the kitchen. Someone was already awake. Precise chopping sounds came from the kitchen, as well as strains of ancient classical music. It sounded like opera, but Jim couldn’t be sure; he liked a good opera every now and then, but his tastes tended towards twenty-first century music.

Spock was impeccably dressed in his Starfleet blues, a soup simmering on the back burner as he added chopped plomeek, uniform and precise. Jim joined him at the stovetop, leaning against the counter.

“Last day of shore leave,” he said, watching Spock grab another root vegetable and chop it with quick, skilled motions.

“Indeed.”

“Since we’re no longer chained together, I understand if you want some quality time with your dad,” Jim began, blush creeping up his face, “but I’d originally planned to go rock climbing, and it’d be fine if you wanted to come along.” Spock slid the chopped black root into the soup, instructing the stove to raise the temperature ten degrees before facing Jim.

“I would be amenable to that, Jim.” He hesitated, glancing at the doorway. “There is something I must share with you.”

Jim nodded for him to go ahead.

Spock moved a little closer. “Vulcan touch telepathy is largely conducted through our hands. They are the most sensitive part of the body. As such, touching hands is of significant personal meaning.”

A small breath caught in Jim’s throat as he replayed all the times he’d brushed Spock’s hand over the course of the last two days, even lacing their fingers together for a few seconds. Mortification crashed over him in a hot wave. Spock shifted minutely closer, so close Jim could count his eyelashes. His voice had a peculiar rasp when he began again.

“For my people, the ozh’esta is of tantamount significance, on level with the ta’al,” he explained, voice low. Jim felt him tracing his face, charting the flecks in his eyes and the freckles that only appeared when the sun coaxed them out.

“I find that I dislike being separated from you, Jim,” he whispered. Jim’s heart beat so loudly it was a wonder Spock couldn’t hear it, couldn’t feel the blood rushing in his veins as much as he could.

“Spock,” he said, the name dropping from his lips without thought. Spock extended his index and middle fingers together, the other three tucked into his palm. Jim had seen the famous photo of Sarek and Amanda touching their fingertips together in that way; it had been more intimate than the paintings he’d seen the first time he visited the Louvre. Spock wasn’t looking at him, now, eyes cast somewhere on the floor on the opposite side of the room, as if afraid of what he’d see if he faced Jim.

He formed the ozh’esta as naturally as if he had been born to it, fingers inches from Spock’s.

“I feel the same,” he said, shifting ever closer. Spock’s gaze snapped back to him, pupils wide, cheeks dusted with green.

“Good morning, Captain, Spock,” Sarek said, striding through the door with measured peace of mind. Jim and Spock sprung away from each other, Jim retrieving three bowls and spoons as Spock checked on the soup. Jim cleared his throat and focused on the bowls in his hands.

“Good morning, Ambassador Sarek,” he said, ears burning. Spock said nothing as he ladled soup into the bowls. What did one say when their parent walked in on an intense moment?

They took their breakfast in lingering silence, Sarek bidding them goodbye without a mention of their unbound status or the moment he’d walked in on, only complimenting Spock on the soup and wishing them fair travels with the Enterprise. There were eight hours left of shore leave, and Jim doubted he could stand it alone. The tension in the kitchen grew so thick it would need a laser to cut it. They washed the dishes together, Jim washing and Spock drying, the distance between their fingers and hands intolerable. After packing, cleaning the spare bedroom, and checking in with Scotty about the Enterprise, the moment came. Jim vibrated with nervous energy, wiping his palms on his pants as if that would calm the churning in his stomach.

They were, once again, on the austere couch, contemplating Sarek’s extensive stacks of pads and Amanda’s likeness on the wall. Jim’s stomach fluttered. Spock was right next to him, but felt worlds away, as if what happened in the kitchen that morning was part of someone else’s life. They turned to face each other at the same time.

“Spock, I—”

“Jim, I—”

They stared, then Jim broke away, laughing away the tension.

“About that ozh’esta,” he began, forming it easily. “I learn better by example. Care to show me?”

Spock’s mouth fell partly open, then he shut it, teeth clicking softly. “Jim, do not mistake my…feelings for anything less than they are. Vulcans—”

“Bond for life, I know. Ambassador Spock shared some stories,” Jim admitted somewhat sheepishly. He took a stabilizing breath. “You’re my right-hand man, Spock. And something deep inside tells me there’s more. Something between us that’ll shape the both of us, for the rest of time.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand, apprehension burning like a forest fire. Maybe he imagined that morning. Maybe the last few days were just a leftover fever dream from the weird plants they brought back from that one planet.

Spock’s gaze softened impossibly in that moment as his slender fingers formed the ozh’esta. There were no words, except that when their fingers touched, feather-light and tentative as a newborn, that inexplicable feeling of a bond resonated through Jim again, in waves of warmth and light.

Every almost-touch had never felt so explosive, like the birth of universe.

“Wow,” Jim breathed.

Spock’s naked gaze revealed more than words could. His expression was open, dark eyes clear, for once living solely in the moment, in the fulfillment of a burning, suppressed dream allowed to surface and become truth. His lips parted slightly, ears tinged a delightful green. His eyes devoured every aspect of Jim, of their fingers touching, the midday light gracing Jim with gold. It was the kind of sensation that burned itself into every nerve, burying itself deep in one’s core.

“Indeed.”

It was, as Jim would tell Bones later, the best shore leave the two of them had ever had. Sulu had been mildly surprised to receive the handcuffs back in one piece, with a key, but had asked no questions, only passing a credit chip to Chekov and furiously looking up more articles about Houdini. And off they went, into the glittering black, trading covert kisses on the bridge in glance, a mere brushing of hands as they passed, ever at each other’s side.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY a few notes:
> 
> 1) Desperate Hours by David Mack has alllll the Spock & Michael sibling feels. And does involve an ungodly amount of water.  
> 2) If you guessed who the stranger was, great job :) It's everyone's favorite temporal being.  
> 2a) The song was totally going to be Take A Chance On Me by ABBA, just so you know.
> 
> That's all, for my first Star Trek fic! I'm raspberrylemoncupcake over on tumblr, if you want to give me a shout.


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